So I’m sitting on a 5 ½ hour flight from New York to Los Angeles with my kids and my partner.
I’m so happy not to be alone for this flight.
My oldest son is sleeping on my arm (we had to depart for the airport at 4:30 AM), and my youngest is very much attached to his “Tatty”. So…not my responsibility, for the moment.
And I’m posting this from 35,979 feet with free JetBlue wifi. Just like the old days…except I’m sure they’ll flood my inbox with spam, now. And the plane is freezing. So we’ll be breaking down to pay for a damn blanket at any moment.
I’m taking advantage of the quiet. I love flying because I can’t do anything but read and write. Put me on a plane to nowhere. If it’s a 13-hour flight I’m in heaven. I don’t want to sleep.
But flying is so stressful with kids. You just can’t help but worry and worry.
What if they scream?
What if they fight?
What if we are “those guys” ruining the flight for everyone around us?
What if my underwear is uncomfortable?
What if I sit next to Terry Gross but she doesn’t want to talk with me because I forgot to brush my teeth at 4:15? Will she never tell me what it was like to have Bill O’Reilly storm out of her studio? Or inform me how I can take over her show when she retires?
Can you ever bring enough distractions?
My bag is over-loaded with books and a toys and my computer and iPads.
My realizations as I sit in the plane punching out this silly missive?
I forgot to pack wipes for diaper changes.
And I really only brought a couple trains, some magnatiles and two iPads.
How on earth did parents do it without iPads? I’m speaking of parents pre-iPads. You parents sans iPads be crazy masochists, yo.
But then I worry about the stupid iPads. Am I weak because I rely on it? Am I less creative? Less constructive? Less enriching?
Screw it. On a long flight like this? Whatever works.
I’m fortunate to be headed to Los Angeles to perform in a 2-week, star-studded production of Spamalot at the Hollywood Bowl. It’s a family affair since my partner’s involved, as well.
The boys have been excited for a week. I’m afraid they’ll arrive and say “Palm trees? Healthy, happy people? Why do we live in New York?” but then their daddies are going to disappear from 9:30-6:30 every day and they’ll be miserable.
I’m such an egotist.
But Ellison’s had a hard time in recent weeks with transitions. School, summer camp and babysitters have all garnered tears every single morning.
So two new babysitters in corporate housing with a fraction of their toys all day? Probably not going to be two weeks in California paradise.
I’ll keep you posted.
Ellison woke up. Let hell ensue. But he just looked out the window and said, “We’re in the clouds.”
I’ll stop the play-by-play, now.